Guilt (14 page)

When the chores were done, the afternoon was Claire's own, and she didn't know what to do with herself. She retreated to the isolated peace of her bedroom, but that didn't improve her mind's situation. Disappointment, frustration, regret, heartache, rejection plagued her one at a time, or sometimes all at once. The thought that she hurt Corry's feelings and that he likely felt the same anguish that she did added remorse to her desolation.

Could Corry possibly be moping around the farm, doing chores – milking the cows, spreading the hay – trying not to think about her? Claire wanted nothing more than to end his disappointment and her own. Please let him be willing to face her on Monday. A little courage from each of them would end one another's suffering.

Claire jumped from book to book, pulling volume after volume off of her bookshelf. None of them satisfied her mood. Switching from romance to thriller, fantasy to biography, historical to hysterical, nothing pulled her imagination away from the sad eyes and the heartrending frown of a certain boy she knew.

In desperation, she turned to her art, grabbing a tablet and a pencil, and settling herself down on the bed. No subjects came to mind. She thought about sketching a portrait of Corry from memory, but decided that such a focus was exactly what she was trying to distract herself from.

Giving up, Claire grabbed her coat and scarf and headed out the door. A walk always relaxed her. Strolling got the blood flowing and gave the mind freedom. Somehow, problems worked themselves out or felt more endurable after a ramble in the great outdoors.

But the sight of the gloomy gray sky and the naked trees didn't lessen the depression. The call of the geese flying southward for the winter and the dry leaves crackling underfoot didn't deflect her from her unhappiness.

The only mercy she received came later that night in the form of a dreamless sleep. Nothing woke her, and no thoughts disturbed her.

Sunday morning came and went in the customary manner of church and family brunch. Claire's parents used to test her and her sister on the subject of the sermon for the day. Thankfully, that was no longer their practice. Claire had not heard a word of it, and the fact would have added another measure of guilt to her already overflowing cup.

Once again, the afternoon was hers to fill, and she spent it in much the same manner. Unable to find solace in her books, Claire headed out the door again. This time her wandering took her into the woods. She stumbled across the Giant's Grave without ever having intended to end up there.

The silence and other-worldliness of the place salved her senses more than anything else had this weekend. She could picture, as she always had before, the picnickers that used to lounge here. She imagined two young lovers dressed in their nineteen-forties attire huddled together on a blanket that was concealed by a large old oak tree on the adjacent hill. She saw a Victorian man in his Sunday finery bending down on one knee at he foot of the Grave proper, begging for the hand of a lovely young woman who was more than willing to give her consent. A contented husband in a fedora and wife in a blue poodle skirt sat at the top of the Grave watching their children race around the bottom of the mound. An old couple from an indiscriminant era, walked down the path hand in hand, toting an empty basket as they left the Grave behind.

These were small town dreams she envisioned in this place. Dreams she didn't want to have. They countered her desire to break out into the bigger world. But, then again, they seemed less oppressive when she was here. Living such a quiet life didn't seem so bad. She could do it with the right person. Maybe with Corry?

Even though her ramble in the woods had her thinking of Corry more intently than ever, the thoughts themselves left her less bereft. She looked forward to the next day, when she could sort out the problem that made her and her friend so forlorn.

* * *

The bounce wasn't back in her step as she made her way to school the next morning, but Claire did feel the recurring thrill of anticipation. Corry couldn't skip school forever. Would he dare to do so for more than one day? She hoped not.

Again, she looked for him in the hallways with no luck. Once more, she spent the lunch period alone. Her hope was beginning to waiver.

Added to the disappointment was the concern of a new rumor that had started that morning around the school. No one really talked to Claire, so the information came to her by overhearing snippets of conversation, and then through eavesdropping for the rest.

The gossip regarded a student of the school. No one seemed to know who it was for sure, but speculations flew. Any student of the masculine persuasion that wasn't in school that day became suspect to the incident. Hints of overdosing, self-inflicted gun wounds, jumping, hanging . . . suicide.

Claire heard Corry's name mentioned once or twice, which meant that he wasn't at school again. The thought disappointed her, but the rumors frightened her. Gossip ebbed and flowed, developed and reshaped. Eventually, Claire caught a story that suggested that depression and rejection had incited the alleged suicide.

She couldn't believe it. She wouldn't even consider it. Gossip meant nothing. Silly little lies that grew and amassed details like a snowball rolling downhill. The students were rude and heartless to even consider such fabrications, be they about Corry or any other student.

Art class came and went without Corry. Claire didn't expect to see him by that point. The very fact that he was subject to such rumors meant that he must be absent. She ignored the gossip, ignored the Freak's questions and comments.

"Where's your boyfriend today?" he pried. "You break his heart and make him blow his brains out?"

She wouldn't give the bastard the simple pleasure of a glance in his direction. She just stared at the blank piece of paper in front of her. When the class bell rang, she grabbed her book bag and rushed out of the room.

She couldn't go to algebra, would
not
be able to make it through another class. No one noticed her as she walked out the front doors, and she maintained invisibility as she stalked towards the high school woods. For the second day in a row, Claire ended up at the Giant's Grave.

She felt angry and hurt and scared. She didn't know what to think, and she hated all this uncertainty. All this waiting was killing her, but that was all she could do.

She'd wait until tomorrow. She'd see Corry, and everything would be all right with the world, once more.

Just wait.

Chapter Nineteen

Wheeze and hiss. Crank and thunk. Up and down motion ripped twisted vines from their decades long grip, and sent rust flecks and old red paint chips flying into the air. It took immense muscle strength to move the handle of the old pump, and about twenty solid thrusts to produce any desired results.

I had walked to the high school to meet Kain in the parking lot adjacent to the woods. When I got there, I noticed the old, once fancy, water pump in the front yard of the house that sat beside the Giant's Trail: an inadvertent monument to forgotten traditions. Since we were making an excursion in tribute to the bygone picnickers, I thought it would be fitting to remind Kain of the ritual of pumping the mineral water to haul up to the Grave for refreshment and nourishment. Although I only mentioned it for its historical significance, he took to the idea and decided to try the pump.

Marching over to the edifact, surrounded by thorny blackberry vines, he found a grip on the corroded handle. I gauged the neighborhood around us, making sure it was clear of any Barney Fife type law enforcement officers or suspicious local busybodies. It seemed that most people were content enough to stay in their homes with the fireplaces and heaters going on this nippy late Saturday morning.

The house to which the pump belonged looked even more dilapidated and decayed than it had in former years. Too bad. I'd always had a tiny desire to fix it up to its original three story glory, white washed with green gingerbread trim and a flag flapping on a pole that jutted off one of the columns which held the porch roof over the front door. I would rescue the window panes with their diamond shaped etchings that were designed to bend the sunlight and throw rainbows around the rooms; and I'd remove the broken dormer windows from the spacious porch so some wicker furniture and a porch swing might become prime seats for enjoying a warm summer evening.

Oh, what this place – and the whole town of Brickerton, for that matter – must have been like once upon a time.

Kain drew me back from my reverie as he worked the pump so hard I thought the handle would break. I was poised to run if it did. I had no desire to spend my last night in Brickerton sleeping in the town jail over vandalism. Then again, the bed might be more comfortable than the one I'd been in as of late.

Spittle started to come out of the spigot after several minutes of forcefully drawing the long-standing water. Another pump brought forth a gush of fluid, dark and thick. Kain kept pumping, a sly grin appearing on his face as he realized his success.

Several more pumps produced the same effect. Brown water splattered to the vine strewed ground. I walked through the tangle and cupped my hands under the spigot to catch the next dousing. It came with force, ice cold on my palms. I yelped as the water splashed from my hands, hitting my face and running down my neck to be absorbed by my sweater. Kain laughed, and I did, too. What a dumb move. I should have known that would happen. I'd always wanted to try the water so badly, so I hadn't really paused to judge the velocity of the pump flow.

Cupping my hands again, I stretched my arms out, keeping my body as far from the spout as I could. The water gushed out once more. This time I was ready. I caught some of it in my hands and raised it to my face. Dirt and other sediment swirled and settled on my palms, rendering the water a color similar to that of a muddy swamp. There was no way I was going to drink it.

When I shook my hands out to rid myself of the polluted water, Kain laughed, again. "I guess that's a tradition we'll have to forego, after all".

He pushed the pump back down to its original position, sending one last surge of water to the soil, and walked back to his vehicle to get our picnic things out of the trunk.

Kain shouldered a backpack that looked so old and worn that I thought it must have been the one he used in high school. Then, he loaded a bundle of firewood into his arms. I threw a plaid picnic blanket over my forearm and clutched some roasting sticks for the marshmallows. Now that we were on our way up the trail, excitement filled my head, broadened my smile and even put a little bounce in my step. It had been years, literally
years
, since I'd felt this giddy.

Inhaling the cold air and enjoying the prickling affect it had on my nose and throat, I took in the old familiar scenery around me. No place on the west coast looked quite like this. Those high mountain forests and coastal woodlands didn't quite measure up to this tangle of maples, oaks, birches and pine trees. The lichen and moss that covered the rocks and tree trunks added a touch of green to the wonderful array of browns and oranges. Even in its dead November slumber the area felt alive with an eternal verve.

And the sound of the surroundings reminded me of ocean waves, except that they were continuous, never cresting or breaking, just the light roar that's made when the surf heads towards the shoreline. This noise was caused by the wind swirling through the treetop branches and rustling the last of the leaves that still clung hopelessly to them.

As we turned the last bend of the trail, the Giant's Grave came into view. I dropped the blanket and the forks, and ran. Kain caught on quickly. He dropped the firewood, and we raced up the mound to the top. I won, though I had to admit, I did have the head start. We laughed and collapsed by the pit, breathing hard. Neither of us had exerted ourselves to such an extent in a long time.

I should have been more aware of what this kind of play could bring about in Kain. He leaned forward when I wasn't looking, and managed to connect his lips to mine before I could prevent him. For a moment, the connection felt warm and inviting. An wakefulness aroused in me, making me aware of what I had been missing out on by not letting a man into my life all this time.